“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest—­
  Yo-ho-ho! and a bottle of rum.”

Right in the middle of the festivities, too, I takes my runnin’ jump.  Pickin’ out a quaint old ring from my collection, I slips around beside Auntie and snuggles up confidential.

“Well, Torchy,” says she, “what is it?”

“It’s a big favor,” says I.  “See this?  I want you to let me ask Vee to wear this for—­for keeps.  Can I?”

“You—­you mean—­” she begins.

“Uh-huh!” says I.  “Until some time I can fit one on—­well, one that the best man hands me.  Come on, Auntie.  Have a heart!”

“You ridiculous boy!” says she.  “If you must, though—­”

Say, I wasn’t lookin’ for that next move of hers.  Think of it—­Auntie!  And she lands one right on my cheek, too.  Everyone sees it.  And, while I’m pinkin’ up like a cranberry tart, Old Hickory sings out gleeful: 

“Tut, tut, Cornelia!  What is this all about?”

“I suppose,” says Auntie, “that we must drink a toast to these youngsters of ours.  That is, if Verona insists on being so foolish.”

“How about it, Vee?” I whispers, capturin’ her left hand.  “Do we let ’em drink?”

“Silly!” says she.  “The other finger.”

It’s a bit public, I admit.  Might as well have hired a hall.  But they all seems to enjoy handin’ us the jolly.  Mr. Ellins makes a reg’lar speech, tellin’ how fond he is of both of us and how this event pleases him more’n findin’ the buried treasure.  He winds up by askin’ if everybody ain’t about ready to start back for New York.  The vote is unanimous.

“Why not to-night?” asks J. Dudley.

“To-night it shall be,” says Old Hickory.

“Say, Mr. Ellins,” I breaks out just then, “lemme pass the word on that, will you?”

And, when I gets the nod, I breezes out on deck and up to the Captain’s stateroom.

“Cap,” says I, “welcome words from the boss.”

“Sailing orders?” he asks.

“Yep!” says I.  “You’re to tie her loose from Florida as quick as you know how, and head her straight for the wet end of Broadway.  Get me?  Broadway!  Say, but don’t that listen good?”

CHAPTER XVII

A LITTLE SPEED ON THE HOME STRETCH

And, speakin’ of thrills, what beats gettin’ back to your own home town?  Why, say, that mornin’ when we unloads from the Agnes after a whole month of battin’ around, New York looked to me like it had been touched up with gold leaf and ruby paint.  Things seemed so fresh and crisp, and all so sort of natural and familiar.  And the sounds and the smells!  It’s all good.

Course, there wasn’t any pelicans floatin’ around in the North River, nor any cocoanut palms wavin’ over West Thirty-fourth Street.  As our taxis bumped us along, we dodged between coffee-colored heaps of slush that had once been snow, and overhead all that waved in the breeze was dingy blankets hung out on the fire-escapes.  Also we finds Broadway ripped up in new spots, with the sewer pipes exposed jaunty.